Peter Aylen was not happy. He stood there, hands in his pockets, hat tipped low, surveying the wreckage of the burnt-out building, like it had personally insulted him. The men inside, cloths tied ‘round their faces to filter the residual smoke, kicked and sorted through the charred remains of the bakery, looking for…well, that, they didn’t quite know. But Mr Aylen insisted, and that was enough to make it happen.
The locals—a bunch of Canadien women and children, mostly—scowled at the intruders, not understanding what was going on, but knowing that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.
A sleigh stopped nearby, horses snorting unhappily, but Aylen didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge it.
“Oh, you can’t be serious,” said Justice Sutherland, stomping up to Aylen’s side. He gestured to the building. “I’m not in the fire brigade, sir. And certainly not in Lowertown. What am I meant to do about this?”
“Search for survivors,” said Aylen, ominously.
Sutherland’s face went blank. Surely Aylen wasn’t serious! Search for—
Aylen laughed, patted the judge on the back. “I’m just fooling, your honour. That’s not a job for a man of your stature.” He turned, tone darker than before and said: “Besides, there aren’t any survivors to find.”
Sutherland shivered, eyes darting to the witnesses nearby and spoke quietly: “If this is a warning, I assure you—”
“Not a warning. Not a warning at all. This is your chance to do right, Mr Justice,” he said. “This tragedy here, this is the kind of thing that can spur real change. Knock people to their senses.”
Sutherland didn’t understand, and was past trying to hide it. “This is the French district,” he said, glancing around to be sure. “Why do you care about a burnt-out building that isn’t even—”
“I care about all people,” Aylen said, smiling at the nearby Canadiens. “All good citizens of Bytown are my concern.”
Sutherland leaned closer. “I don’t see how this particular incident will help with—”
He turned Sutherland to face the ruins. “What strikes you first?”
“There was a fire,” grumbled Sutherland.
Aylen laughed. “Aye, yes, that there was. Accidental, do you think?”
“Likely not,” said Sutherland. “Likely set by one of your…” He realized what he was about to saying checked himself. “Your enemies.”
Aylen patted Sutherland’s chest like they were old friends. “Keen eye, there, Mr Justice.”
“The French burning down French homes won’t gain much traction back home,” Sutherland said, more quietly than before. “Regardless of who lit the match, the victims here won’t help you. At best, it might prompt a new push for a proper police force. At worst…sympathy for the Canadiens.”
“Oh, well we wouldn’t want that now would we?” grinned Aylen. “But you’re still missing a key fact. Dig deeper, sir. Deeper.”
Aylen’s men were, indeed, digging deeper. Throwing charred wood and metal aside as they sorted through the ash for…something. Not just anything, something specific.
Sutherland frowned. “The victim isn’t French.”
“Ah, now we’re makin’ progress!” laughed Aylen, and led Sutherland closer to the shambles. The smell of smoke was overpowering, suffocating. Their feet crunched upon the broken glass from the windows that had come apart in the blaze.
“It wasn’t arson,” he said, kneeling down to pick up a piece of blackened wood. “The fire was accidental. A distracted baker left his oven unattended for a little too long, and then…well, in these dry conditions, it doesn’t take much, now does it?”
“An accident…” echoed Sutherland.
Aylen tossed the blackened wood to Sutherland before clapping his hands together, knocking off the soot. “For a jurist, you don’t think much beyond the end of your nose, sir,” he said. “A distracted baker left his oven.”
“Yes, and…?”
“Distracted baker. Distracted, sir. Distracted by what?”
Sutherland sighed unhappily, dropped the wood on the ground and crossed his arms. “Get to the point, sir. I’ve no patience for—”
Aylen stood suddenly, bearing down on the poor judge, incisors bared. “Pick it up.”
Sutherland flinched, shrinking back. “Pick—?”
“Pick. It. Up,” said Aylen, not breaking eye contact for a second.
“Th-the—”
“Now, sir.”
Sutherland’s gaze shot around the street, seeing all the people watching him in this moment, their ears perked up to hear every last whisper being said. He was a judge. A man of distinction and honour, being brow-beaten into performing menial tasks at the behest of a street thug, and—
When he looked back to Aylen, it was clear “brow-beaten” was a softer punishment than he might yet receive. He knelt down, hand wrapping ‘round the blackened wood, and then very carefully stood back up.
He didn’t know what to do next. What to say. He offered the wood to Aylen, hoping it was the right answer.
“No, your honour, you keep that,” said Aylen. “After all, it’s evidence.”
Sutherland looked at it anew, confused even more. “Evidence of what?”
“Of the baker’s crime, sir. Here, ask that question again.”
“About the—”
“The distracted baker, yes. Go on. Ask.”
Sutherland tried to remember: “D-distracted by what?” he offered.
Aylen’s grin was manic. “That’s it. Well done, sir. Distracted by what?” He looked back to the ruined building. “Distracted by murder.”
“Murder?” said Sutherland. “The baker was murdered?”
“Not murdered. Murdering. So caught up in his crime, he didn’t notice the smoke until it was already too late. Perhaps the screams drowned out the crackling of the flames…”
“Whose screams? Who’s dead?” said Sutherland.
“A most tragic figure,” said Aylen. “The poor widow Kelly. It breaks the heart.”
Sutherland shook his head. “Who?”
Aylen slapped him, hard. It happened so suddenly, the older man nearly fell; he clutched his cheek, eyes brimming with tears, shocked at the sudden turn. But Aylen wasn’t done yet. He pointed a warning finger, his voice rumbling with fury. “I’ll not have you disrespect her like that again, sir.”
“No, sir,” nodded Sutherland. “I apologize. I do. It’s just been—”
“A long week?”
“Yes. Yes, a long week. But I recall now…Mrs Kelly. Her husband…passed…”
Aylen’s rage bubbled closer to the surface again. “Are you stalling, sir?”
“No, sir. No,” said Sutherland. “Her husband…the late…” The sliver of a memory came into his mind, and he grabbed at it with both hands. “Constable Kelly! Murdered, too, and…” He realized the contours of what was going on. He looked up at the burnt structure, then down at the wood in his hands. “A French baker killed her…”
“Aye,” said Aylen, calm creeping back over him. “But not by chance. No, she did not end up his victim by chance at all. You see, Mrs Kelly came to see me last night. Late last night. And a right state she was in, too.”
“Wait, she—”
“Said she’d confronted Big Joe Montferrand himself. That she’d found proof that he and his Gens had killed her husband in cold blood. That she was going to expose him, bring him to justice, whatever it took.”
Sutherland eyed Aylen cautiously. “Indeed…”
“Now I cautioned her against it, of course. Warned her that—” He spoke louder, so the Canadiens would hear it. “—these are dangerous men with no regard for laws nor honour. I begged her to stay quiet a while longer, ‘til we could gather the witnesses and evidence needed to convince an esteemed jurist like yourself of the case, and have it decided on the level, as it’s meant to be.”
Aylen put a hand on Sutherland’s shoulder. “Alas, your honour, I fear I was righter than I knew. Because on her way home, the poor, innocent widow Kelly was snatched from these streets, dragged into this den of wickedness, and—” He mimed stabbing, downward, like he could see Maggie there, begging for her life, and was taking great pleasure in cutting her apart. “—struck, and struck, and struck and—”
He dropped to his knees, looking at his hands like they were covered in blood. “Distracted. Lost in the moment. He never heard the crackle, never smelled the smoke until it was too late.” He wiped his hands together and got back to his feet. “Mrs Kelly’s evidence may have died with her, but the evidence of her murder may yet do—”
One of his men stumbled out from the building, leaning in close and whispering in his boss’ ear.
Aylen heard, processed, and frowned. And then exploded: “What?”
The woman’s head smacked against the wall, a grubby hand pressed to her forehead, grinding her skull into the wood behind. She was too good at her job to show discomfort to a customer, but still, there was a look in her eye that betrayed genuine fear.
“Easy, mister,” she said with a hesitant smile. “Why don’t we bring this over to the bed?”
Sisk leaned in, tongue tracing the line of her jaw in a slow, agonizing motion, then whispered in her ear: “Talk less, or it’ll hurt more.”
She glanced over at the pile of coins on her nightstand. Too many coins to ignore.
She knew what was expected.
Sisk’s hand let go of her forehead, but wrapped ‘round her neck instead. He lifted her up onto her toes, his rotting teeth exposed in a smile as she squirmed, desperately trying to catch a breath that wouldn’t come without his permission.
“You want pain?” he asked, panting heavier and heavier. “Is that what you want?”
Panic was starting to set in, but still, she knew what she had to do. She nodded, as best she cold, and wheezed: “Yes.”
Sisk’s other hand moved down to his waist, down to his belt…and slid a knife free. The woman had no idea; she was too wrapped up in the immediate danger to even consider that he might be angling a blade toward her abdomen, right under her ribs, and—
The door crashed open. Sisk turned to see, flipping the blade around for fighting instead of killing. But it was only Aylen, so he stowed the knife away entirely.
Aylen flicked his hand toward the door. “We need to talk. Now.”
Sisk looked back over to the woman, who was far beyond playing games now, and on her way to asphyxiation. “But we haven’t got to the good part yet…” he said, in a mock whine.
“Mr Sisk,” warned Aylen.
Sisk let the woman go. She collapsed to the floor, eyes rolling as she came back to life. It took her a moment to finally gasp, heavily, and reach a trembling hand out, catching Sisk’s leg for support. “I…I…” she wheezed.
He kneed her in the face. “You heard the man,” he snarled. “Out! Get out!” He grabbed her by the hair and threw her onto the floor, closer to the door. She cupped one hand to her bleeding nose and mouth, and crawled past Aylen and outside.
“You’ll have no whores left to visit if you keep that up,” said Aylen, closing the door.
Sisk was helping himself to the coins on the nightstand. “More brothels than trees in Bytown,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
Aylen threw something on the bed next to him, and Sisk frowned, taking a look. It was a burnt-up piece of wood. Fresh, by the smell of it.
“No you won’t be fine,” said Aylen. “Not making mistakes like that.”
“Mistakes like what?” asked Sisk, pulling up his suspenders. “It burned, didn’t it?”
“Aye, but without her inside.”
This got Sisk’s attention. “You looked?”
“Of course I looked! I had Sutherland there, too, to witness it! And lo and behold…no bodies! Not a single one!”
“Maybe you missed it—”
“Do not presume to insult me so, Mr Sisk,” growled Aylen. “I know where you came from, and I know how to send you back.”
Sisk’s hands stayed still, his amusement gone. “I did what you asked.”
“You left her there? To burn?”
“Aye,” said Sisk. “To burn.”
“Dead?”
Sisk paused, brow twitching. “Close to it.”
Aylen nearly screamed. “Close to it? What does that mean?”
“I knocked her out, set her down, lit the fire, left.”
“But you didn’t kill her. The one part of the plan that was most vital, and you—”
“I reckoned,” said Sisk, licking his teeth, “she’d wake to the flames and start screamin’. Everyone about, everyone comin’ to see—that’s what they’d hear. See the flames, feel the heat, hear her burn alive.” He sighed. “You said to make an impression. I did what you said.”
Aylen slumped, leaned against the door, mind working furiously. “Fine. Fine, we adapt. We spin a tale.” He snapped his fingers. “She came to me with evidence that Montferrand killed her husband.”
“Savvy lady, that.”
“On her way home, his men grabbed her. But since she didn’t have the evidence on her, they’ve taken her captive, to torture her until she gives it up.”
“I like the way they think,” grinned Sisk.
Aylen stood tall again, nodding to himself. “Spread the word. I want every eye in Bytown looking for Mrs Kelly. At my personal request.”
Sisk whistled. “That’ll be a manhunt. Who’ll we say has her? Big Joe himself?”
“No,” said Aylen, thinking. “That’ll go wrong fast. No, pick someone less able. The baker, whose shop you burned. Say he’s the one. He’ll be much easier to find.”
Sisk turned. “And when we find them?”
Aylen’s face was devoid of emotion. “Leave nothing to chance.”